


Ka-Tet

by thelongcon (rainer76)



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: 5:02 snippet, AU, Other, Rickyl, kind of, the dark tower series, tumblr ficlets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-28
Updated: 2014-10-27
Packaged: 2018-02-22 23:12:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2525243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainer76/pseuds/thelongcon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two ficlets from tumblr, one a small take of 5:02, the other a brief au from Kings universe</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

THE HUNT: 5:02 Ficlet:

 

Daryl walks the left flank when he checks the sun-line, crossbow over his shoulder and belly aching.  It’s a smudged yellow, low in a hazy sky; the colours run into each other like a water print.  He lengthens his stride, draws past Sasha and Bob, overtakes Glenn and Maggie until he’s parallel with Grimes.  Daryl taps his shoulder-blade with an outstretched finger, voice mute, relying on the tactile.  Rick turns his head and catches his gaze. Daryl readjusts his crossbow and pinwheels into the underbrush, striking out into the trees in a straight line.  Behind him, the group continues along the track, a phalanx with Rick at its head. 

Daryl keeps walking. 

Rick’s people know how to stay in formation, how to keep their numbers tight, no stragglers allowed.  Those who held last watch during the night, stay in the centre mass, those more alert, keep to the outer perimeter.  They’ll swap out eventually, change positions, Rick will remove himself from the point position to allow Maggie to take lead, when his eyes begin to droop, when his feet stumble, but it won’t be for a while yet.  They’re quiet on the trail, conversation kept to a bare minimum, but over a dozen people stomping through the woods doesn’t pass unnoticed and it’s a good fifteen minutes before Daryl hears something  _other_  than the buzzing of insects. 

The first tentative note of a birdsong is the warbled cry of a magpie, it sounds loud and cheerful in the Georgian green. 

Daryl doesn’t need to know how far Rick will walk, where they might stop, or if he anticipates any detours.  Best laid plans tend to trickle through people’s fingers out here and Rick doesn’t obsess over the minutia like he once did.  Daryl will catch up with the group when he catches up with them; and if they scatter in the interim he’ll hunt them down individually.  He knows the threadbare sole of Rick’s boots; Carl’s mismatched sneakers; he knows how Abraham walks like a soldier, the heel of his foot sinking hard into soft dirt, the imprint of his toes infinitely lighter; he knows Michonne walks along the outer bones, rolling her feet inward, quiet as a ninja.  Daryl strikes out until he can’t hear them anymore - until the threat of their presence is forgotten by the forest and the things that creep between - until it’s only him and the taut string of his crossbow, the slow exhalations of his breath. 

His stomach is tight with hunger; gnawing at his ribs.  His hand remains patient, gaze unfocused, relying on peripheral vision as he waits. 

He’s never carried a watch on his person, not even when he was a kid. Rick and Carol obsess over their watches, he knows Glenn and Hershel did, Dale too; once upon a time.  The creeping passage of history documented and contained by those who felt it was important, found on this person’s wrist, carried on that person’s hip-pocket, swinging from a chain like a pendulum.  A reminder or link.  He’s never had much use for the preoccupation of time; that base human nature to extract a depth of meaning from its slow passage, or to freeze time, to assign grandness to a certain event.  Everything is forgotten in the end, everything decays and wilts, and Daryl’s never found grandness in history or books, dates and times, civilisations or the philosophies that founded them (he never sat easy beside Dale and his book of quotes, he would look at Hershel side-on) he finds meaning buried in the ordinary.  The things that pass unremarked are the things he holds dear. 

Daryl watches the angle of the sun; the accumulation of minutes are voiced by the reminder in the back of his head to  _find Rick soon_ , and not by a watch-hand, he can translate hours by the stiffness of his own muscles, the small pile of critters he harpoons to the tree-trunks that grows steadily beside him.

It’s a small thing, the line of squirrels he carries over his back, and it will go unremarked when he returns to the group; hunger knocked aside; importance and meaning, purpose built to carry _him_ onward.  Daryl tracks them almost idly, not following Rick’s true path.  He zigzags over their route, finds a broken twig here, a sunken boot-print there; he weaves through the brush like a drunkard, doubling back, listing left.  He listens to the magpie herald the late morning sky until it too falls ominous and quiet, the sense of watchfulness a heavy entity.   _Find Rick,_  the voice urges,  _it’s best to find Rick_ ** _now._**  

In the distance, the forest breathes out, a stench of rot, like flesh caught between smiling teeth.

Daryl hesitates, eyes narrowed, pupils grown small.  It’s a stare; peripheral vision given way to a direct sight-line; piercing through the shadows like a sniper.  Find Rick, he says.  He doesn’t have anything concrete, nothing solid like a book or a direct time, no evidence.  He has the sun and the shadows, the well known sounds of a  _hunt_ and an instinct that overlays facts.  It’s enough for Daryl; he thinks, in the end, it will be enough for Rick too.

Daryl doesn’t follow their trail true, he cuts through the forest at an angle, walking in silence until Bob and Sasha’s conversation lures him home.  He hears the scuffle of automatic weapons, sees the whiplash tension in Rick’s frame, the line of muscle, the triangle of forearm and shoulder held rigid, the muzzle of his gun a black hole.  Daryl raises both hands, ignoring the dozen guns in favour of one man and intones: “I surrender.”

He did.  Has.  _Will._   It’s a joke and the honest truth, there’s no mark in the calendar to cement the fact; the transition was a blurred line smudged in the past; it’s an uncertain date, ear-marked for the future.  

Daryl can say it ironically, he can say it knowing the look in Rick’s eyes, one part jaunty, one part bemused.  Daryl slinks beside him, the line of squirrels tapping his shoulder and butt, the two of them whisper-close.  ”Nothing.  No tracks.  Not a thing.”  They’re good, he thinks musingly.

"Nothing to support what you thought you heard last night?"

"It’s more a feelin’."

Rick spins on his heel so he can walk backwards, a low whistle to cut through the small chatter.  ”Tighten it up,” he orders.  Rick doesn’t question his ‘feelings’, and Daryl  _can_  assert that fact in any number of ways, without even a trace hint of irony.  _I surrender_  he said, staring at one man only, and he can feel the yield, the slow give running through his bones, the way he tilts toward Rick's unquestioning trust.  

"We’re being watched," he says, out of the corner of his mouth, a warning, an irritant, and catches Rick’s aborted nod.

I surrender, he said, and Daryl might have stated the obvious under the threat of a dozen guns but he didn’t belie the fact.  He knows how to judge his moments and now is not the time; he’s running herd on a bunch of cats, keeping a close eye on Carol, the skittish look she casts toward the shadows; hauling Glenn back with a palm fixed firmly to his chest, following Rick against orders because surrender doesn’t mean _beaten_ and this is Daryl’s family they’re messing with.  If it’s Rick’s job to protect the whole; then it’s Daryl’s job to protect the individual and he intends to keep it.

Once they’re done with the ghosts tagging their heels - and that won't take long, it won't even be a blimp in time - Daryl has his own hunt to contend with.

 

 


	2. Ka-Tet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a crossover with the Dark Tower series

Ka-tet: 

or that one time thelongcon threw herself into a Stephen King universe, or Roland Childe to the Dark Tower came, via walking dead and Rick Grimes…er...

 

 

He breaks into the clearing just as the sun ascends the distant hill, a wall of darkness at his back, of gnarled trees curled into the bosom of one another. Daryl spits, one hand shielding his eyes against the rising sun, an empty water container grasped loosely in his left hand.

The grass ahead lies sunburnt and stunted from a summer that won’t quit.  Daryl reshoulders the crossbow and sets forth.  There’s a rusty water-pump beside the railway line, some kind of way station where the tracks lay a metal scar across the mid-land; it’s little more than a shack and weighing station; an unhinged sign warns about the dangers of insects and bearing contaminated fruit across state borders – BIN IT BEFORE YOU ENTER TENNESSEE! – the sign says, then more cheerfully – HAVE A PLEASANT STAY! – some vestige of a world that has long since tripped on, leaving skeletons behind to stumble over.  He stops at the pump, the ground gone dusty and cracked beneath his feet, and cranks the handle three times. 

“Figures,” he says, voice dry as the well, when nothing trickles out. 

The sign creaks in protest.  The air feels too hot; the oxygen threadbare; the first mirage shimmers in the far distance.   _You’re going to be the last man standing,_  Beth said with conviction - half drunk on moonshine, happy - and damned him straight to hell in one thoughtless strike.

Last man standing wasn’t any sort of comfort.

The railway track is overgrown with stubborn weeds.  It’s steel has expanded in the never-ending heat, warbled, grown rusty with lack of repair crews and maintenance; an instant derailment for any passing train; in the early morning light Daryl can see a town wavering out of focus, and knows it’s a construction of his own mind.  He knows better than to listen to the ghosts that pace beside him, to pay attention to that rough laugh, or see the curve of a cherished smile.  Daryl turns a slow circle, looking toward the shack with its boarded up windows and crooked door.  His heart thumps, sluggish, his feet move forward of their own accord.

Rick’s colt weighs heavy on his hip as Daryl flings the door off its hinges.  He catches sight of something dead and furry in the corner; the smell of decay rancid; hears a radio bleeding static on the counter bench; and sees the walker lurch forward in flickers of pale light, streaks of greedy hunger.  

Like a demon, its eyes are blooded-red.

He doesn’t use the colt; can’t spare the remaining ammunition; and the bolts in his crossbow ran dry long ago.  Daryl pivots out of reach - bones reaching for him, a loose grin of exposed teeth, shambling feet – moving fluid as water until he’s standing behind the walker.  It’s not something he thinks about – like the walkers – he has a mindless conviction to survive, to keep moving no matter what.  Daryl grabs him under the jaw, fingers sinking into rotting flesh, snapping its mouth shut and drives his bowie knife deep into its skull.  Its feet skid to the left and Daryl grimaces, startled, when the jawbone sloughs right off, sitting pretty in his hand as the body topples gracelessly.   His vision darkens with the exertion, the lack of water, the constant hunger that gnaws at his ribs.  In his hand, the jawbone grins humourlessly.

The radio crackles, resolves into an excited voice:   _“Frank White has been called out on an attempted steal of second base! Oh, boy, the Royal fans are not happy fans, Jeff, are you hearing this?  Can you hear this crowd right now!”_

_“Indeed, folks, there seems to be some dissent as to whether or not White beat the tag, but the decision has been made.  Pat Sheridan is up for bat next, and the mood for Game 6 has turned vicious.”_

Daryl’s legs fold out from beneath him – outside, impossibly – a freight train roars by.

 

***

“Like a virgin,” Shane sings, in a falsetto, “touched for the very first time.”

“I hate that song,” Rick announces.  His toe kicks out against the post as he watches the vehicles careen down the street.

“Like a  _vi-ir-ir-gin_!” Shane bellows into the traffic.  “with your heart beat, next to mine!”

Sour, Rick throws a half-eaten apple at his head.  “Quit it.  You’re twelve, think anyone believes you made a home-run with Kirsty Swanson?  Huh?”

“Jealous.”

“Jerk.”

"I was beat.  Incomplete.  I’d been had, I was sad and blue,” Shane’s bottom lip wobbles dramatically.  “But you made me feel, yeah, you made me feel so shiny and new.”

Rick shakes his head, groaning; dark curls bounce in front of his eyes, overlong and not cut over the summer period, they flop over his ears, lend what his mom calls a ‘pixie’ look to his features.  He’s smaller than Shane, in stature and across the shoulders, but he has infinitely better taste in music than Madonna.  He pulls his walkman out of his school bag, stuffs his ears full, and turns on Tears for Fears.  Shane grins at him, punches his shoulder in farewell and sets off with the rest of the school class, headed toward the underground station, taking the train out of Atlanta and home, while Rick waits to catch the bus instead.  He plans on stopping by his grandma’s while he’s still in the city; Rick presented his note to the teacher when the school excursion concluded, his mom’s endorsement written in cursive script; and recited both the bus route number and his grandmother’s address without hesitation.  He’s twelve, not a child, and Rick has an easy confidence that disarms most adults, Mrs. Henderson included.

Bus forty-one appears, turning left onto main street, approaching the stop on the other side of the road.  Rick frowns, glancing at the traffic lights that remain stubbornly red, and presses the button three more times.  He can feel that build-up of bodies behind him, more people gathering close as they wait for the change of lights, dark suits and designer shoes, cigarette smoke cloying the air.  The sky rumbles overhead, storm-clouds writhing, a streak of lightning, and Rick feels a hand plant itself into the centre of his back, between his narrow shoulder blades.

***

Outside, the train streaks by like a rumble of steel thunder, carriage after carriage, after carriage. Daryl stumbles out of the shack, staring slack-jawed and disbelieving as pebbles of sand blast against his face like raindrops.

***

“Whu – “Rick says, and twists to look behind him.  He sees a black clad arm, fingers like raw bone, a face made of pestilence.  He sees a grinning skull and bloodshot eyes, feels the centre of his balance flounder for one precious moment, then he’s shoved into the on-coming traffic like a human projectile.  He screams, he thinks he screams.  The bus, the front gleaming with metal, fills Rick’s entire vision.

***

Daryl moves without thinking; fights without thinking.  It’s the closest to zen he ever achieves, the absence of internal conflict, the strength of his own instincts governing his movements.  He’s been fighting for so long it's an ingrained habit rather than a conscious choice.  It involves no effort on his part at all. 

The air is needle thin – and he thinks the pulse in his mind is amplified – it resonates as if the earth itself is breathing, drawn into bi-valves, splitting into ghostly parallels.  As the last carriage passes by, a body topples into the air, arms and legs flung back, chest thrust forward.  The perfect arc of a body propelled by sudden force.  It makes no rational sense, there were no open doors on the carriages of the train that streaked by, the body simply materialises mid-air and plummets toward the dusty ground. 

Daryl doesn’t so much catch the boy as he’s flattened by him, flung off his own feet and onto his back, both arms wrapped around his small bulk to prevent gravel rash, crushing the kid tight.  Daryl’s head strikes the dirt at the same time his ribs cave in from the impact – and he can hear a high-pitch scream – terror given voice as the radio crackles with static/baseball/static.  The jawbone, flung from his hand, chatters across the dirt, ivory teeth left behind in its wake.

“Shit,” the kid says, hysterically, and clings to him.  “Shit, shit, shit.”

“You’re okay,” Daryl says, on autopilot, and forces his hands to release the boy’s shirt, to let the material unbunch from his fingers.  He slides out from under the kids weight, dim spots in front of his eyes from the jarring movement, and takes a moment to catch a good look at him.

He thinks, belatedly, his body gone utterly still, that maybe this is what insanity is; how it first manifests.   Rick Grimes stares back at him, under a mop of curls and a child’s too-smooth features.  He says, with the collected panic that Daryl himself is trying to hide.  “Is that a zombie?”  Ignoring the train, the fall, the bizarre relocation for the immediate.  The kid points at the body inside the shack, at the disembodied jawbone lying in the dirt, at the blood and grime staining Daryl’s body with a shaking hand.  His eyes are impossibly wide, his body coils like an animal, and Daryl can read the fight/flight running through the entire line of his frame.

The boy - because it’s  _not_  Rick, it ain’t, it’s Daryl’s brain, the solitude, piling the crazy on top - grabs a fistful of sand and throws his arm like a fast pitch, scrambling to his feet.  And Daryl knows that mulish look, the fierce assessment that can flay a person to their marrow (and with a decaying body in the doorway; a strange archer who never met a shower he couldn’t avoid) Rick’s come to his own conclusions mighty fast.  He takes off like a goddamn damn hare, and Daryl’s rolls to his feet, and yells in disbelief:  "What the hell's a _zombie_?" before giving chase

 


End file.
